Futility
by i'llchangeitlater
Summary: It's not as if Happily Ever After was the point.
1. Chapter1

Merlin hates summer. It's a sentiment that makes sense, despite Will's vehement and increasingly eloquent protests that everyone loves summer. (Will likes arguing, and rebellion is something that comes easily to him. So, obviously, he's become quite articulate.) But despite Will's claims, Merlin's a pasty Irish boy. He tends to turn tomato red during the summer. After the tomato red stage, there's the itchy peeling phase, and then he's left with more freckles than he ever bargained for.

And, of course there's the fact that something about the hazy quality to summer makes his magic run rampant through his veins, thrumming just under his skin, gushing out from the cracks in his skeleton. It was always during the summer that his mom would regard him with a worried gash of a smile cut across her lips.

_Merlin, honey, how many times do I have to tell you that you can't use magic in public? If someone finds out, they'll take you away from me, understand? _

There was a certain cruelty to the question 'understand?', something adult and cold and utterly beyond Merlin's comprehension. Magic was something intrinsic to him—he was born with it, it was sparking off his fingertips before he could talk. Every time his mother would say this, he would pout, and his forehead would crinkle with indignation.

_But Mommy, some other kids have magic too! They don't get taken away! _When he said this, the skin around his mother's eyes would tighten.

_Well, Merlin, other kids can't do what you can. I explained this to you, remember? The government needs people with magic to win the war. When you're twenty five, you'll be drafted, but if you do magic in public, they'll probably take you earlier than that. It's just like how…" _His mother would always grapple for words at this point, her voice fading on her tongue. Then her mouth would arrange itself into a quick, flashing smile, one that didn't meet her eyes.

_"Okay. What if Sir Cuddles the Lion got really mad at Lady Fluffy the Horse? Let's say Lady Fluffy was really, really strong, and Sir Cuddles needed all the help he could get? So he…asked—_her voice would hitch, and the word 'asked' would fall out of her throat cleaved down the middle—_his friend the magical Knight Dragon to fight Lady Fluffy? And Knight Dragon wouldn't be able to see his mommy again until he was done fighting Lady Fluffy. Do you get it now? _

At this point, Merlin would regard her with confusion. He was a smart kid, but not smart enough to understand what an army draft entailed. Try he might, but his mother's explanations would slip away from him, sleek and flashing with words he didn't understand, like a fish that didn't want to be caught. His mouth would open in protest.

_Mommy, Sir Cuddles and Lady Fluffy would never fight! They're friends! And Knight Dragon wouldn't fight for Sir Cuddles! Knight Dragon knows that you have to talk it out before you fight!_

His mother would grin.

_Okay, sweetie. I just don't want to lose you, all right? _

Merlin smiles to himself. Funny, huh? She didn't lose him. It was the other way around.

He's tugged from his reverie by whooping sounds coming down the street.

Oh, no. No, no, no. Merlin's not going to get involved. This isn't going to be like last summer, when he may have accidentally brought a clay dragon to life. (He was going into junior year, okay? He was stressed.) No. He will not go towards the huge amounts of noise. Huge amounts of noise mean trouble, and it's the summer before his senior year in high school. Absolutely not.

But, somehow, his feet move at their own accord, and he finds himself standing at the edge of the park. (It's one of the stranger things about rich, predominantly white American neighborhoods—there are elaborate parks scattered strategically throughout. Well, it's not bad. His eight-year-old self found it delightful when he first moved here, from his mother's tiny old house in Ireland.)

A small crowd of people is huddled around the football field. Merlin can't help but notice that the crowd is composed of pretty teenagers with a moneyed shine, a portion of their beauty stemming from their fine clothes and carefully maintained skin. They're the ones responsible for the whooping and laughing, their eyes fixed on a scene that Merlin can't quite see.

Merlin turns to the nearest pretty teenager. "What's happening?" he asks, fiddling with the edge of his threadbare shirt. He expects cold reproach, but the teenager merely smiles.

"Oh, the usual. Some guy's tormenting a poor soul." The teenager's are words light, uncommonly so, accompanied with a toss of his dark, glossy hair. His equally dark eyes appear, upon first glance, placid and docile, but there is a fierce disapproval etched into the hard line of his mouth.

A crease appears between Merlin's brows, and he pushes his way to the edge of the crowd.

"I told you to run!" a blond boy standing before the crowd shouts, his fine features split into a smile. The sleek moneyed shine coming off of him is particularly bright, and Merlin's taken aback. The boy-man, really-resembles a Greek god more than a human.

Then Merlin's attention is caught by a pale freshman, who's running desperately back and forth across the field.

The blond Greek god snorts, and calls, "Keep moving. I need target practice." The words are haughty, idle, and he allows the last syllable to fade from the air before he sends the football he's holding into the freshman's stomach.

Merlin doesn't find him quite as pretty anymore.

The freshman's eyes are blown open with surprise, and his slender hands scrabble fruitlessly at the ball. He stumbles from the force of the blow, brought to his knees, the football rolling away from him.

Anger coils in Merlin's stomach, and once again, his feet move at their own accord. He strides over the the freshman, and when he picks up the football gingerly, its leathery skin is warm underneath his fingers.

"Hey," he says, voice resonating in the ensuing silence. "That's enough. You've had your fun, mate."

The Greek god's face crumples into an expression of distaste. "Do I know you?" he asks, voice condescending and barbed with sarcasm.

Merlin grits his teeth, but it's the summer before his senior year and trouble's the last thing he needs. "I'm Merlin," he says conjuring up a smile and extending his hand.

"So I don't know you."

"No." Merlin turns and makes eye contact with the slender freshman, who pulls himself to his feet, does the sensible thing, and runs.

The blond boy doesn't seem to notice, his upper lip curling with disdain. "Yet you called me 'mate.'"

Merlin turns and offers him a sharp, sideways smile. "My mistake. I could never be friends with such a massive dickhead."

This startles a surprised, almost pleased laugh from the blond boy. "And I could never have a friend who could be such a massive idiot." A sharp smile-more of a predatory flashing of teeth than anything else-remains stretched across his face for a second longer before he jabs lightly at Merlin's face with a closed fist.

Merlin ducks, his eyes incredulous.

"Tell me," the blond boy asks, voice long and slow and lazy. "Do you know how to walk on your knees?"

Merlin stumbles back a step. "No," he spits back, pleased with the defiance in his voice.

"Would you like me to teach you?"

Merlin feels the magic rise, lapping at the inside of his skin. Distantly, he realizes that this is the most alive he's felt in ages.

"I wouldn't, if I were you. I could take you apart with one blow."

The Greek god's eyebrows inch towards his hairline. "Oh, really? Well, come on then. Take a swing." He stops advancing, spreading his arms out. "Come on."

Well, Merlin's an idiot. Will and Freya never miss the opportunity to tell him so. And, with all his massive idiocy intact, he obliges the blond boy.

Laughing, the blond boy catches the blow easily. "You'll have to do better than that," the boy says, his voice low and dark with a threat. Then, with an ease that can only stem from years of practice, the blond boy advances once more, fists clenched by his face.

He jabs again at Merlin, this time with more force, and Merlin doesn't think, doesn't remember his mother's warning. The magic rises, and he uses just a little to twist the boy's foot.

The boy falls with more force than expected, landing on his face with his arms outstretched. Merlin's face cracks into a bright smile, because really, the boy had it coming. Cautiously, he edges closer.

"You okay?" he asks brightly, laughter still in his voice.

The boy raises his head, eyebrows drawn together. "Fine," he replies easily. Then, without warning, the boy's legs whip around and suddenly Merlin's flat on his back, the Greek god straddling his chest. One of the blond boy's hands is spread across Merlin's collarbone, pinning him to the ground, the other rests lightly on his throat.

Merlin swallows, the blond boy's thumb riding the motion. Then the blond boy smiles, and his voice tickles Merlin's ear.

"I could have you thrown in jail, for attempting to assault me,"

The front of Merlin's pants feel uncomfortably tight. _My gosh, Merlin, you useless homosexual,_ he reprimands himself. _  
_

"Who do you think you are, Uther Pendragon?" Merlin snaps back, attempting to wriggle free.

He has listened to lectures from Freya, who holds true to the belief that the American government resembles more of a monarchy than anything, archaic Constitution be damned. And their king? No other than powerful 'senator' Uther Pendragon. According to her, Uther has preserved enough basic rights, like freedom of speech and press, and maintained the facade of a democratic government well enough that no one cares enough to stage a revolt.

Well, it's not really a belief. Most leading political theorists agree with her.

The blond boy's laugh ghosts along Merlin's skin, pattering down his spine. "No. I'm his son. Arthur Pendragon. Maybe you've heard of me?" His voice is caustic, searing Merlin's skin.

Oh no. Didn't he swear this wouldn't happen? That, for once in his life, he wouldn't get into massive amounts of trouble?

Arthur releases him roughly, and the crowds of pretty teenagers stir. "Leave him alone," Arthur calls, raising a hand. The crowd obediently falls silent.

"You're an idiot," Arthur tells him, his eyes searching as he studies Merlin. "But you're brave, I'll give you that."


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur quite likes it here, out in the country part of New York.

That's partly because nothing has really changed, in their move. They're still mostly interacting with white people. They're still surrounded by adults with plastic smiles and carefully maintained masks of politeness. They're still living in a house on the larger side, in a neighborhood on the richer side, in Uther's quest (or, more accurately, his press agent's quest) to 'give his children a normal childhood.' Said kids of the slightly richer neighborhood still flock to him in hordes, attracted by either his stunning good looks (he knows it's true) or his high pedigree. They're still attending one of the best schools in the country, except that this one's public, culling the brightest students from all over the country, and rumoured to let in Native Americans.

Uther and his press agent had a huge fight over this, Arthur recalls. Uther's hatred of Native Americans and their intrinsic magic runs deep. Deep enough to trigger a purge twenty years ago, that wiped most of the Native American population off the earth. Or, according to those pictures he and Morgana stumbled upon when they were five, into the Earth, in symmetrical trenches, with bullet holes through the forehead-

Arthur cuts the memory off, gagging. It'll change, he vows to himself. When he comes into power, he's going to change it all. He loves Uther, because he has to, but he despises the way this country's run. Arthur's going to make life better, for the citizens.

Arthur opens the mahogany front door of their house, and is greeted by the sound of chatter and laughter. Another thing yet to change-Morgana's_ insane_ talent for making friends.

"Morgana!" he calls, annoyance seeping into his voice.

No response, as usual.

"Morgana!" he calls again, bounding up the stairs. "Where did the maid go? Uther said she'd make dinner." The kitchen table was, he notes, sadly dinner-free.

"Morgana!" he growls, throwing open her bedroom door. She is, of course, reclined on the bed, wearing a self-satisfied smirk. A narrow figure is bent over her toenails, carefully painting them a golden colour.

"Hello, Arthur," she exclaims, her smirk widening. "I thought I heard you come in."

A giggle seeps out of the narrow figure's throat, and it turns around to face him. Arthur nearly stumbles back with surprise.

"It's you! With the dinner plate ears!" Arthur thought something about the figure's slender, flute-like wrists looked familiar. And no one other than that _idiot_ from the park would wear a threadbare red shirt at venomous odds with an equally threadbare blue neckerchief.

Now that he considers it, this is j_ust like_ Morgana. She's always been a sucker for the misfits, the troublemakers. She adores people with rebellion entrenched in their veins, who shrug off rules as easily as a snake discards dull skin. But Arthur has to admit that these non-comformists, these arguably insane people, are the ones who drive the human race forward, the ones that raise hell and drag progress in through their wake. They're crazy, but they're crazy enough to change the world.

Arthur studies the boy more carefully, and is swept through by a wave of relief. This boy doesn't seem to be one of those world-changing progressive rebels. Arthur can recognize those people. There's something different about this boy, but not a different that Arthur's ever seen before. Maybe it's the fact that he may as well have _poor_ etched all over his pale skin, maybe it's the fact that there's something vast and wild and surging contained behind his eyes.

A guileless smile forms on the boy's-Merlin, was it?-mouth, and, shaking his head, he turns to Morgana.

"You're related to this clotpole?" he asks.

Morgana shrugs, and resumes filing her nails with an emery board. "He's adopted," she says offhandedly.

Arthur grits his teeth. "No, _you're_ adopted," he snaps.

Morgana's smile grows infinitely more catty and she says, "Anyway, brother dear, this is my new best friend, Merlin."

Arthur heaves a sigh. "Yeah, I know. I met him. Why did you let-he gestures vaguely towards Merlin, face arranged in a distasteful expression-_him_ into our house anyway?"

Inspecting her nails carefully, Morgana retorts, "College essay writing class, brother dear. Because I, unlike you, actually have a brain. And I, unlike you, am not a snobby little shit, and make friends who are not in my economic bracket." This is all said with a smug half smile curling one side of her mouth.

Arthur groans, and then slams her bedroom door shut, leaping down the stairs. He's exasperated, but for some reason, he's the happiest he's been in ages. The strangeness of the situation is not lost on him-months of what felt like the world pressing into his shoulders, months of a sad thing heaving in his chest, and suddenly, his mouth can't quite stop smiling.

Above him, Morgana waits for a second before she allows her predatory smile to fade.

"So, Merlin," she says, her shoulders hunching forward, the smugness draining out of her voice. "You have it too, then?"

Merlin's smile softens. "Yeah."

Morgana leans back against her headboard. "What on earth are we going to do?"

A long sigh forms on Merlin's mouth. "I have no idea."

* * *

I'm not proud of this chapter. But I hope you enjoyed anyway!


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